the safe refuge of the chrysanthemum bouquet.

"I believe he will live some time," he soberly predicted.

The girl stared, frowned, and laughed.

"No fair! No fair! That's not the game, Mr. Gerard."

"No? Then I will send the bon-bons."

"Chocolates."

"They shall be chocolates."

"And I may put back the nasty beetle?"

"On no account; I have ransomed him."

"Oh, very well," she shrugged, rising. "I'll take refuge in billiards
for the next game. Corrie taught me to play, but I can beat him, now."

"Perhaps he doesn't watch his game when his opponent is his cousin."

"Why, what else should he watch?" she wondered, arching her brows a
trifle too innocently.

"I cannot imagine, if you do not know," Gerard dryly responded, and held
open the door for her to pass out.

In the billiard room, Isabel rolled her sleeves above her elbows as a
preliminary measure.

"I haven't had that off for a year," she confided, indicating a flexible
platinum and turquoise bracelet encircling her firm, sun-browned arm.

"You are fond of it?" her companion inferred. "It is a beautiful bit of
work, indeed."

"I like it well enough. That isn't the reason, though. You see, it
locks, and after Corrie put it on my arm he kept the key. He says he
will give it to me on my wedding day. But it isn't worth that."

"Worth----?" he questioned.

"Getting married. Will you play me even?"

"Pray fix any odds you choose, Miss Rose. How many points does Corrie
usually give you?"

This time Isabel's stare of surprise was genuine.

"I meant, how many points should I allow _you_," she corrected
arrogantly.

"Oh, pardon me!" he submitted. "Suppose, in that case, we play for an
even score."

The storm did not abate. The wind drove the rain before it in glistening
gray sheets, the steady drumming of the downpour accompanied the click
of meeting ivory balls and the occasional speech of the players. After a
time, a deep-belled Mission clock in the hall struck four.

A sharp, incredulous cry from the girl rang out, after an interval of
silence in the room.

"Why--why, you've won!"

"So I have," acknowledged her antagonist. "Shall I apologize?"

Isabel started to speak, and checked herself. She had been chiefly
intent upon her own accomplishment, and Gerard's playing was of a
deceptive leisureliness and tranquillity.

"How many did you make in that last run?" she asked, finally.

"Only seventeen."

"You can't do it again."

"One n